


Faith

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cancer, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing that happened with Sam escaped Dean’s notice. Nothing, except for Sam developing acute lymphoblastic leukemia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**SAM**  
 

The sheets are like rough sandpaper on his skin and the pillow itches his neck. His incessant, restless twisting and turning has pulled the hospital gown tight under his armpits, pressing on his lymph nodes painfully. He is afraid to move though, not wanting to disturb his already churning stomach even more. No matter how badly he wants to close the blind on the window to shut out the blazing sun that is giving him a headache.

He is feeling like crap.   Dean is lying in the other bed, sporting a matching hospital gown to Sam’s. Their dad sits in a chair between their beds. Sam realizes Dad is wringing his hands nervously and he wonders if he should be nervous too. Sam looks at Dean, who meets his eyes with a determined glint is his own. It’s gonna be alright, Sammy.  He cracks a small smile at Dean before closing his eyes and focusing on not throwing up again.

As he falls into a slumber, his mind wanders back to the past 3 years.   He remembers the first months after the diagnosis as if they were a dream. Everything went so fast. The chemo therapy, the bone marrow tests, the constant adjustments to his medications until the doctors got the dosage right, the near suffocating silence after they told their dad the bad news. He remembers being sick. Really sick. Throwing up, blisters in his mouth, his lymph nodes hurting so bad he'd cry, losing and losing weight until his clothes no longer fit.

And he remembers Dean. Dean’s hands rubbing his back soothingly. Dean’s soft voice talking him through a bout of throwing up. Dean’s arms around him when he was shivering with cold. Dean’s lies about where their father was and when he’d be back. It had helped like nothing else. It had made him feel safe.

  He fondly thinks back to a summer day, about a year after his diagnosis. He was having a good day, not feeling too sick, able to eat something. Dean was stretched out on the old sofa, snoring like a lumberjack. He knew Dean didn’t like falling asleep when Dad wasn’t there to keep an eye on Sam, but he’d been up all night because Sam had been up all night and he’d lost the battle with sleep about an hour ago.  

Sam didn’t mind. He felt good, the food he’d eaten at breakfast was still inside him two hours later and the runny nose he’d been having for weeks was finally drying up and leaving him alone. It was a good day. He sat next to Dean on the floor, with his head resting against Dean’s arm. He was just looking at Dean, thinking.

  ‘Hey Dean? Have you ever felt like... felt like crying?’  

He looked at Dean then, eyes tracking the tired set to Dean’s mouth, the dark circles under his eyes. Dean was tired, dead tired, but he never said a word to anyone. He just took care of Sam.  

‘You must be so sick of everything, Dean. So tired. I am. I’m tired and sick and I feel like crying. Like, all the time.

‘  He blushed at his own admission. Sam knew Dean and his dad thought he was so brave, but the truth was he wasn’t brave at all.  

‘I’m scared, Dean. I’m so freaking scared and I don’t know what to do. What if I never get better, what if I die? I don’t wanna die.’

  His voice wavered by the end of his confession, carefully held back emotion coming through. He sniffled a little, his nose starting to run again. He wanted to get up and hide in the bathroom until his embarrassment over crying went away, but before Sam could unfold his legs from under him, Dean’s hand closed around his arm and pulled him up onto the couch. Dean wrestled Sam into a lying position, with Sam’s head under his chin.  

‘You’re not gonna die, Sammy. I won’t let you.’

 

**DEAN**

 

Sam doesn’t complain about pain. Like, ever. At 11, he had already been hit over the head so many times it’s a wonder he’s still getting straight A’s at school. Not to mention the times he's been thrown into solid, unforgiving surfaces too many times to count.

And got drained by a striga, but he doesn’t know about that one. Still.

So when Sam stepped out of the shower mumbling something about a bruise that just wouldn’t go away, Dean was alarmed. Really alarmed. Taking advantage of Sam being undressed, he’d checked Sam over roughly, leaving finger shaped bruises in his wake. He’d cussed himself out over it, but Sam assured him it was fine, it didn’t hurt. Dean could tell he was lying but he didn’t call Sam out on it.

The bruising was strange though, strange enough to tell dad. Dad had frowned, first at being disturbed from his research and then at the weird bruises on Sam’s arms and legs. He turned back to his computer without a word and Dean had let it go. Reluctantly. When Dad took them to a nearby doctor a few days later, he figured it was just to get some cream for Sam’s bruises and that would be that. Despite the initial worry for his little brother, Dean didn’t panic when they got sent straight to the hospital. That didn’t come until grave looking doctors rushed Sam away to be tested.

 The nurses took Sam’s blood, examined his bruises, performed a whole battery of tests and then started on the questions. Have you been feeling more tired than usual? _'Maybe, I’m not sure.' 'Yes, Sam, you have. Remember the past few.... trips? They wore you out.' 'Oh yeah, you’re right Dean.'_ How long have you had these bruises? _'I don’t know. Two weeks maybe?' '10 days, Sam.' 'Right, sorry Dean.' 'Don’t be sorry.'_ Are you experiencing any other out-of-the-ordinary things? Aches, coughs, itches, more out of breath than usual? _'I guess I’ve been feeling a little sickly lately.' 'You have? Why didn’t you tell me?' 'I didn’t want you to worry, you need your head in the game when we... go on a trip.'_

The doctor wasn’t satisfied until he had grilled Sam for an hour. Dad had just sat there, watching Sam and Dean, while they answered the doctor’s questions. He never put a word in, never so much as tried to correct them. They didn’t need it anyway, nothing that happened with Sam escaped Dean’s notice.

Nothing, except for Sam developing acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

That’s when the nightmare started. 

Dean thought it was as if the cancer only started once they knew. Before, Sam was fine, if a little weak and off his game. He never seemed more than just a little off, like he was coming down with the flu maybe. After though? After the diagnosis was set, Sam got real sick, real quick. The bruises never went away anymore, a constant, black and blue reminder of what was destroying Sam’s body from the inside. He lost weight like crazy, no matter how much food Dean shoved down his throat. He would just puke it back up. 

And the pain was getting worse. When Sam would wake up in the morning, all twisted up in his sheets, sweat would be dripping down his body as if he just came out of the shower. He was feeling disgusting, sick and useless. Dean would calm him down, put him under a lukewarm shower and make him a cup of tea. Just about the only thing Sam would keep down in the mornings. The pregnancy jokes tasted foul every time.

Rationally, Dean knew Sam didn’t suddenly get worse once they knew he was sick, but that’s what it seemed like to him. Suddenly his little brother was sick, life-threateningly sick, and he couldn’t help. No weapon he or Dad had in the trunk of the Impala would kill the cancer cells. No salt rings or demon traps would keep the bad cells out. Nothing Dean would do, would kill Sam’s diseased lymphoblasts. Fucking evil that won’t die. It ate away at him like flesh eating bugs.

The medicines the doctor’s gave Sam were awful too. They made Sam nauseous, made him spend hours hunched over the toilet with Dean rubbing his back and wiping his mouth. Dean would like to do nothing more than flush the meds down the toilet, he wanted to crawl inside Sam’s bone marrow and kill all the evil sons of bitches with his bare hands.

It was three weeks into the first chemotherapy when Dean had his first freak out. They’d been staying in the same town ever since Sam’s diagnosis, but Dad was getting restless. He had a new lead on the thing that killed mom and he wanted - had to - go after it. He had set Dean and Sam down and explained what the situation was and that he had to go away for a few days. Dean had lost it.

‘You can’t leave him like this! He’s sick as a dog. He’s DYING dad!’

Dean’s mouth had snapped shut at the word he’d been avoiding speaking with everything he had in him, but his dad didn't so much as raise his eyes. He kept on packing his bag.

‘You’ll be fine Dean. Sam’s doing well, his medicine seems to be working. Just make sure he takes them on time and nothing will happen.’

Dean glanced at Sam, who looked pale and exhausted, rubbing his temples slightly. Headache coming on.

‘No, dad! Look at him, really look at him! He’s sick. SICK, dad! You can’t leave us alone. What kind of a father leaves his dying son to chase some... some... thing? You probably won’t even find it! You’re...’

He hesitated before finishing his sentence. He knew he would cross a serious line, but he had to get it out. Had to find a way to get his dad to stay. To not leave him alone with a dying Sam.

‘You’re a lousy father who doesn’t give a shit about his own son!’

Dad’s face had softened when he understood why Dean was being disrespectful. Dean had scowled. _’I’m not scared, dad.’ ‘Of course not, you’re just looking out for Sam.’ ‘Yeah.’_ Dad left and Dean pulled Sam from the bathroom he was hiding in. The yelling had worsened his headache. _’I’m sorry Sammy, I didn’t mean to make you sick.’ ‘You didn’t make me sick Dean, don’t be stupid.’ ‘You’re stupid.’ ‘Real mature, Dean.’ ‘Shut up and get on the bed, it’s time for your meds.’_

After the initial month of chemotherapy, Sam had to go into the hospital for a day to get his first bone marrow examination. Dean went with him to hold his hand during what had to be an extremely painful examination. Sam never complained. He just held on to Dean’s hand, squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to breathe normally. Dean could use some help with the last one himself.

If his dad not being there surprised the doctors, they never showed it. They explained everything to Sam and Dean and gave them paperwork to pass on to their dad to sign. Results from the marrow test would come in the following week and then the doctors would decide the best treatment to get the remission induction phase started. Heavier chemotherapy and, depending on the test results, radiation therapy.   If Sam was scared, he never showed it. Dean owed it to him to keep his fear under wraps too, even if he wanted nothing more than to cry and scream and beg his dad to take it all away and make it stop. Even if it felt like a cold hand was squeezing his heart so tight it would stop beating at any second. Sam needed him to be strong, even if he didn’t know how to.

Two months went by with Dad leaving for longer stretches of time and Dean and Sam holed up in the motel room. Dad moved them to a slightly better motel after Sam’s first change in medication. Sam had developed a mild cough, possibly caused by mold or the damp air, and Dad had moved them out as soon as they were sent home from the hospital. He got drunk that night too, but Dean told an exhausted Sam to get some sleep because dad was actually on a hunt nearby. It was the start of many, many lies he told Sam.

 

**SAM**

 

The nausea finally subsides a little and Sam risks moving to tug his hospital gown straight from around him. When the pressure on his lymph nodes lifts, he sighs a breath of relief. No matter how many times he got hurt during a hunt, nothing ever hurt as much as this. Cancer. Leukemia. Death.

He cracks an eyes open and glances at Dean. Dean looks nervous, but more determined that ever. _’Anything to save you, Sammy.’_ Sam knows Dean means it, but it doesn’t do much to regain his belief that he can beat the cancer. They had thought he had beaten it before, hadn't they?

 

**DEAN**

 

The not knowing what was coming was the worst. Dean had read through all the pamphlets the hospitals had given them and he’d spent countless hours surfing the internet for information and he’d gotten nowhere. All he wanted, needed, was a plan. A plan of attack against Sam’s evil cells. There was nothing. No plan, no prognoses. He never wished for a crystal ball more than he did after the first six months of Sam’s treatment.

The bruising was the only constant thing. No matter how gentle Dad or Dean would be, Sam would always, invariably, bruise. If he tied his shoelaces a little too tight, he would have black and blue feet for days. If he bumped into the table, Sam would have a bruised hip for at least two weeks. Dean would shy away from touching Sam, afraid to hurt him, but Sam wouldn’t have it. _’It’s just bruises Dean, I’ve had worse. Now help me out, I can’t do this by myself.’_ So Dean ignored the screaming voice in his head telling him “no” and helped Sam. That’s what Sam needed.

The first time Sam bled, Dean freaked. He’d seen Sam bleed before, but it had never been anything like the ocean of blood coming from Sam’s body now. A simple, not even that deep a cut and it bled for an hour. Thin, pink blood all over Sam, Dean, the bed and the floor. And then, suddenly, it stopped. Just when Dean was about to break down and call Dad, it stopped. The next cut didn’t bleed so bad. Neither did the next ten cuts. But the time Sam cut himself for the eleventh time, Dean had stopped expecting the rivers of blood and he freaked all over again.

Every time Sam contracted some kind of bug, Dean didn’t sleep for days. With every cough, every sniffle and every runny nose, Dean thought this was the time he would lose Sammy. It never was, but with every sneeze from Sam, his body would jerk and his hand would reach out automatically to touch Sam. As if by holding on, he could keep Sam with him once his time really did come. He had to believe in something.

The nausea came and went with the wind, it seemed. Sam would be able to eat pie one day and puke it all up within minutes the next. Coffee would be fine at ten am, and hell at five pm. Sam had no idea what would be okay and what not most days, so Dad and Dean were never able to prevent Sam from getting sick and throwing up. Dean would just hold Sam, stroke his back and wait until he was done before cleaning up and putting Sam to bed. Whatever Sam had eaten before he threw up, went on the “bad” column on Dean’s mental list. Not that the list would help, since tomorrow Sam would get sick from five different, new things. But he had to start somewhere.

Blisters he could deal with, even if the cream was disgusting and sticky. The weight loss and paleness he could ignore, write off as temporary until Sam got better. And he did get better. Slowly, but surely his lymphoblast count went down, his white blood cell count went down and the doctors were starting to utter the words “regression” and “remission”. A year after the diagnosis, Sam went into surgery to get his Ommaya reservoir, to start the intensification phase. They celebrated with pie and chocolate milk that Sam promptly threw up. Dean ignored it as a sign and just held his little brother through the heaving.

For a few weeks the new treatment made Sam sicker than he ever was before and Sam began to get depressed. Perfectly normal according to the doctors, but Dean couldn’t stand to see his little brother giving up so easily. Because if Sam gave up, the cancer would win and that was just unacceptable. Not gonna happen, not on Dean’s watch.

It took five months for Sam to get the declaration “clean for now”. His meds were adjusted and he started to feel better. The nausea lifted, the blisters stayed gone and the bruises faded faster until they were all gone and new ones didn’t form. It probably wasn’t a good idea to let himself get dragged into Sam’s enthusiasm and optimism, but it felt too good to see Sam smile again. It seemed like decades since he saw him smile and laugh and feel good. It was too good to dismiss and doubt. He should have known better, but the relief was too strong and he needed to believe Sam was cured. Even if the doctors never used the word “cured”.

 

**SAM**

 

He watches his dad for a while. Dad looks pale, a little sick maybe. Sam realizes his dad is scared. Unlike Dean, his dad isn’t blinded by determination and sheer will. Sam’s not sure he can take his dad’s realism right now, but he knows someone needs to be scared. And his dad doesn’t have Dean like Sam does.

‘Dad?’

His father’s eyes meet his and dad smiles weakly. Sam supposes he’s going for reassuring, but it never reaches his eyes.

‘Yeah Sammy?’

‘Are you okay?’

His dad snorts softly and shakes his head.

‘I should be the one asking you that. How are you feeling?’

He shrugs.

‘I’m fine. A little nauseous maybe, but nothing major.’

He feels Dean’s eyes focus on him at the admission, but Dean doesn’t say anything. As if he knows Sam needs to worry about their dad now and not himself.

‘Good, good. Ready for... Ready?’

Sam nods and looks away. Dad’s never been able to really say the important words. Cancer. Treatment. Chemo therapy. Death.

‘Good. I’m sure this will...’

Dad doesn’t finish his sentence and Sam knows it’s because he refuses to get his hopes up. Or jinx everything. This has to work.

‘It will, Sam’, Dean reassures.

He nods at Dean and smiles. Cancer cells are persistent and stubborn, but no one has ever out-stubborned Dean Winchester.

 

**DEAN**

 

The day Sam got sick again was the day his heart got ripped from his chest. His world just about ended and everything went black. He felt betrayed, lost, hurt and most of all terrified. Terrified to lose his little brother for real. Terrified that this would be it, Sam would be gone. Dead.

Life went on, like the past 2 years hadn’t happened at all. The same meds, the same tests, the same side effects. The bruises, the bleeding, the blisters, the sickness, the pain, the night sweats, it was all back. Only this time things went faster, nastier, more painful, more serious. Not three months in and there was mention of a bone marrow transplant. Neither Dean nor Dad hesitated a second. Anything to cure Sam.

Dad went in for testing on a Tuesday. The test results came back on Thursday. Negative, no match. Dad got drunk. Dean punched a hole in the wall. Sam cried. It wasn’t a good night. Dean had gotten in a fight with Dad when he stumbled in after too many whiskey shots. ’No, Dean, I said no!’ ‘I don’t care dad, I am going for testing.’ There had been a lot of yelling and screaming, until Dean realized why his dad was protesting so much. _’I’ll be fine dad, I’m not going to die.’ ‘I know, Dean, I know.’ ‘Then let me do it, let me try and save Sam. I need to do something dad.’_

Dean goes in for testing on May 23rd. They get the results on May 25th. 3 years after the initial diagnosis, to the day. As if it was meant to be.

_’Positive. I’m a match, Sammy.’_

 

**SAM**

 

He expects to be teased about his request, but nothing comes from Dean’s bed but a quiet “yeah”. Dean asks the nurse and she agrees with a little smile at the both of them. _’Anything to help you boys do this.’_ Dean doesn’t ask Dad to hold his other hand.

This time, Sam gets to comfort Dean. The pain is evident on Dean’s face. His eyes are screwed shut, his breaths come in shallow pants and his hand is squeezing Sam’s so tight he thinks it might fall off. But Dean needs this.

‘Hey Dean?’

Pain-filled eyes meet his and Sam smiles encouragingly.

‘Remember that time we went out for New Years? When we had all those fireworks?’

Dean nods as his eyes slip closed again.

‘That time you nearly set fire to the field? Yeah, I remember.’

Sam chuckles.

‘Yeah, that was fun. Hey, what about that time we played hide and seek in Bobby’s yard?’

‘That time you locked yourself in one of the cars? Yeah, I remember.’

‘And that time Dad took us fishing?’

‘And you punctured your thumb with the hook?’

‘Yeah. Man, that hurt like a bitch!’

‘Sam, language!’

‘Sorry dad. Hey, remember I called you from that library and I asked you how to talk to a girl?’

A small smile breaks through Dean’s pained grimace.

‘You never were good with girls. Good thing you have me, Sammy, or you would never get anywhere.’

Sam falls silent at Dean’s words.

‘Yeah.’

It may be just bravado and teasing, but the truth in Dean’s words is shocking. What if he didn’t have Dean? What if this fails again and he can’t be cured? What if he...

‘Stop thinking so loud, Sammy. I’m in pain. Distract me some more.’

 

**DEAN**

 

He had a hard time remembering that Sam was not getting sicker. That he was losing his hair and even more weight to get healthy. They had to destroy his bone marrow with radiation therapy before they could insert Dean’s healthy bone marrow cells into Sam. He just looked so, so ill. Pale, his skin almost colorless. Dark circles under his eyes. Dry, chafing skin. Dull patches of short hair freckling his head. For the first time in 3 years, Sam actually looked like a cancer patient. It freaked Dean out.

Looking at him now, brave face on and a small smile playing on his lips, is the scariest thing Dean’s ever seen. It could be the last time he'd see Sam smile. It could be the last time he gets to share stories with Sam. It could be the last time. For everything.

The pain is almost unbearable, but he will get through it. For Sam. He just needs a little help.

‘Stop thinking so loud, Sammy. I’m in pain. Distract me some more.’

He knows how his earlier words sounded, but he honestly didn’t mean them like that. The haze of pain around him prevents him from thinking straight and now he’s gone and upset Sammy, just when he needs him so much.

‘Come on Sammy, keep talking.’

At his urging, Sam snaps out of his sombre musings and focuses back on Dean with a small, private smile.

‘Yeah. Remember when we went to that diner and we ate like, five burgers each?’

‘How could I forget? You threw up all over my favorite...’

His breath hitches when the needle moves a fraction of an inch, pain searing through his back. He squeezes Sam’s hand tight and grits his teeth. Counts back from ten, like the nurse told him, and when he reaches two, the pain is gone.

‘My favorite shirt. Bastard.’

Sam chuckles softly.

‘Sorry. I’ll buy you a new one.’

Dean shakes his head with a pained smile on his face.

‘Nah, just get better and we’ll call it even.’

Sam’s “okay” is so, so soft, but he hears it anyway. It’s a promise, for Dean as much as for Sam.

It doesn’t take long for the nurse to remove the needle and bandage him after that. She gives Dean some painkillers, but he refuses to fall asleep until he knows everything went fine and Sammy’ll get his healthy bone marrow soon. The nurse hasn’t finished confirming it when Dean falls asleep, his hand still clutching Sam’s.

Four hours later, Dean startles awake with a shock. His eyes immediately search for Sam in the bed next to him, but the bed’s gone and the room is empty. Panic shoots through him like an arrow on fire. He jerks up, already tearing the IV needle from his hand. His mind does a loop of “where’s Sammy, where’s Sammy, where’s Sammy”. When the needle comes free, he wipes the glob of blood on his sheets and swings his legs out of bed.

He’s pretty wobbly and unstable on his legs, but Dean grits his teeth and forces one foot in front of the other. He has to find Sam. Where’s Sammy?

The hallway is quiet, Dean figures it is either late in the evening or the nurses are all busy with other patients. It doesn’t matter, he has to find Sam. Where’s Sammy?

He peers into each window and open door he passes, but no Sam. He gets stopped by a soft hand at the nurse’s station, but he mumbles something about having to use the bathroom and almost rips himself free, not caring if he hurts the nurse or not. He needs to find Sam. It’s all he can hear over the roar of blood in his ears. _Find Sammy. Gotta find Sammy_.

The second time he gets stopped, it’s by his father’s strong hands. The grip his shoulders tight and shake him a little. It clears the panic enough to get Dean to focus on his dad.

‘Dad?’

‘Yeah, Dean. What are you doing out here? You have all the nurses worried, you need to be in bed.’

Dean frowns at his father’s words and shakes his head. he weakly tries to break free from his dad’s grip, but he’s pretty much used up all his energy just getting here. He doesn’t get anywhere.

‘No, dad... Sam. Gotta get to Sam.’

Dad pulls Dean against him before carefully sitting him down on a bench nearby. He crouches down in front of Dean and forces Dean to look at him with a finger under his chin.

‘Listen to me, Dean. Sam is fine. Really. They’re prepping him for surgery now, so he can get your bone marrow. He’s fine, you hear me?’

Dean hears the words, but they don’t really register. All he knows is he hasn’t found Sam yet and anything could be happening to him. He tries to struggle free of his dad’s grip again.

‘No, gotta find Sam. Dad, where’s Sam?’

His dad lets out a heavy sigh before rising from his knees and waiving a nurse over. They talk for a few seconds, but Dean can’t hear what they’re saying. The nurse glances at Dean a few times. He gathers they’re talking about him, but he couldn’t care less right now. They need to be talking about Sam and how to find him!

‘Dad? Sam...’

Dad crouches down in front of him again.

‘Okay, Dean, okay. You get five minutes with Sam and then you go back to bed. Deal?’

He thinks it over, his tired and confused brain working sluggishly through Dad’s words. Five minutes with Sam. Back to bed. He contemplates making a run for it, but as soon as he tries to move his left foot, he tumbles over against Dad. No breaking free then.

‘Fine. Fine, deal. Sam.’

‘Drink this first.’

A nurse hands Dean a cup of ice cold water and it’s like heaven. It wakes him up like nothing else and he only now realizes how thirsty he was. He hands the empty cup back to the nurse.

‘Thank you.’

She nods and leaves him with Dad, who eyes him worriedly.

‘You okay to walk? I can get a wheelchair.’

‘Ugh, no. I can walk. Just... not too fast.’

Dean carefully rises from the chair and follows his father a few steps behind, to Sam’s room. That turns out to be a small operating room. Unprepared for it, Dean glances at the sterile white walls and the shiny silver tools on the table next to the metal bed Sam is lying on.

He looks so tiny, lying on his side under the bright lights. He looks frightened, small and so, so young. God, he’s only a teenager. A nurse is at his back, doing something Dean can’t see, but it has Sam flinch slightly.

‘Sammy? Are you in pain?’

He pushes his way past his father and into the room a few steps, before coming to a dead stop. Sam turns his head around to look at Dean, wide eyes in pale skin and a terrified look on his face. Dean’s eyes take in the IV tube going into Sam’s arm, the morphine line going into his upper back and the transparent mask over his nose and mouth. He lifts a tiny, shaking hand towards Dean, and Dean just... can’t.

It’s all just too much. Sam, only fourteen and terminally ill. Dying. His body shutting down, betraying Sam, leaving Dean. Sam looking at him so desperately, so scared. The tubes and needles and masks doing god knows what to Sam. The doctors and nurses milling around them, prepping Sam for surgery. To inject Dean’s bone marrow into Sam’s. What if it doesn’t work? What if he can’t save Sam?

The shaking starts in his hands and legs and spreads to the rest of his body within seconds. He can feel Dad’s hand on his shoulder, his gruff voice asking him if he’s okay. He can’t answer, he doesn’t know the answer. He figures it’s no, though. Not at all.

He looks at Sam, hand still reaching for him, eyes pleading Dean to take it and hold it. But Dean can’t move. Not an inch. He can’t force his feet to move and go to Sam, help him like Sam helped Dean. He wants to, but what if he fucks up? What if he can’t save Sam? What if Sam dies while Dean holds his hand? No, not gonna happen.

He takes a shaky step backwards. He registers the moment Sam realizes what’s happening. Sam struggles to get an elbow under him to sit up. Sam shakes his head, eyes growing even bigger with panic and fear. His voice muffled by the mask, but he hears Sam’s begging anyway.

‘Please don’t leave, Dean. Please come back!’

Dean shakes his head. He can’t. He can;t be there when Sam dies, when he fails to Save Sam. He won’t be there when it happens.

‘Dean? No, Dean, come back!’

Sam’s trying to get off the table now, two nurses having to pull him back. For a second, Dean wants to chuckle at Sam’s surprising strength, until he realizes where the strength comes from. Pure fear and panic. He can’t do it.

He takes a few more steps backwards, his own desperation to get away giving him renewed energy. Fight or flight. Dean firmly comes down on the flight side. His eyes still on Sam, he sidesteps his father and rushes out the door backwards and into the hallway. Sam is sitting upright now, both hands extended out to Dean, his voice now loud and clear, even through the mouth piece.

‘Come back! Dean, come back, please! No, Dean!’

Tears fill Dean’s eyes, falling down unchecked. His heart aches for Sam, but every fiber of his body screams at him to get away. To not be the one to not save Sam. He is sure he can’t handle the disappointment on Sam’s face when the doctors tell him Dean wasn’t able to save his life.

Sam rips free of the nurse’s grasps and throws himself off the table. The IV stand falls over with a clang, the morphine line gets ripped from his back and the nurses yell and dive for Sam on the floor. Sam’s eyes never leave Dean’s.

‘Don’t leave me Dean, please don’t leave me!’

Dean’s back hits the wall and he lets himself slide down to the floor. He keeps shaking his head until they finally fall shut. Sam’s pleas ringing in his ears, nothing else registering. And then it all goes black.

This time when he wakes up, it’s to Sam’s smiling face from the bed next to his.

‘Welcome back, drama queen.’

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

‘Just lay down, Dean.’  

Dean shifts a little closer to Sam, perched on the edge of the bed, not daring to jostle him too much or touch him too roughly. Sam sighs wearily.

‘Damn it, Dean. I won’t break, you won’t hurt me. I’m cold and you’re the being the happy little furnace over there, so come on. Please.’

He adds the “please” to really bring his point home. He knows Dean has never been able to resist him begging. It also cuts off the scolding he knows Dean wants to give Sam for cursing. Sam is not above manipulating Dean. And truthfully, he really is cold and wants Dean to warm him up a little.

Dean hesitantly lowers himself onto the bed. He stretches an arm out for Sam and Sam plasters himself full length against Dean, head on his chest, arm around his waist and right leg swung over Dean’s. He lets out a deep, contented sigh.

‘Finally.’

Sam wriggles a little more, getting comfortable, almost burrowing into Dean’s side. Dean gingerly rests his free hand on Sam’s back, still hesitant, unsure. Sam almost rolls his eyes, but he knows how scared Dean still is. It’s been three weeks since the surgery and even though no one knows if it’s been successful yet, Sam’s been feeling and looking a lot better. But apparently not well enough for Dean to not worry anymore.

‘Hey Dean?’

‘Yeah Sammy?’

‘Thanks for saving me.’

‘We don’t know that yet, Sammy. Maybe...’

‘Dean!’

Sam can almost hear Dean bite back the rest of his tirade. Instead, he just nods.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, Sammy.’

**END**


End file.
